


I'll tell you the truth If you let me try.

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Child abuse mention cw, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not Beta Read, Offscreen sex mention between reader and random person, Pedophilia mention cw, Tags will be updated each chapter!!!, Unclassified mental health issues, Ungendered reader can i get a holla, gaslighting cw, no actual slash in ch. 1, suicide ideation cw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please move away from the ledge."<br/>---<br/>Alternatively:</p><p>Mental disorders mixing with vigilantism always leads to catharsis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this because I felt myself getting close to that mental precipice and I still can't help but think of Matty Murdock as anything other than an archangel smiting bad guys.  
> Title from the song "I'm Alive" from the musical Next to Normal.

"Please move away from the ledge."

You snort and try to hide your surprise at the words. After all, it's almost 3 a.m. in Hell's Kitchen. You'd come up here not expecting company and feeling numbed and almost finally ready to push yourself off the roof of the five story apartment you lived in.

The voice was calm, even; it didn't betray any emotion as its owner had approached you.

"What reason do I have to do that?" You don't turn to see who interrupted your plans. It doesn't matter, really. The interruption in and of itself is going to thwart any attempts for a while in what you think of some cosmic intervention. Not that you'll let the man behind you know.

"Surely you've got family that wouldn't want this." You laugh, any ugly wet sound. Of course.

"Definitely. Wouldn't want to make an inconvience or soil the illusion of a happy family." You say as you draw your legs up and curl yourself around them. "My thoughts and feelings on the matter, on my life, weigh less than my family's, thank you." This is a script you know. You're tired of it.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed about your family." A deviation, perhaps to make it seem like this stranger actually cared about how you felt. You sigh and try to push the insidious paranoia from your mind. It tires you nowadays more than anything.

"'S fine." You say, staring at the buildings across from you, letting your body relax a bit. "They're on the other side of the country anyways." You suddenly feel a bit odd about only wearing a thin tank top and underwear to bed before you'd come up here. But then you mentally shrug; if the stranger wasn't going to mention it, you wouldn't either. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"You say that as if you're reading from a script." Huh. You hadn't expected him to call you out on it, nevertheless in a way that sounds like he cares and understands.

"You've been in this situation before?" You ask. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"I've done something similar, yes." You finally turn to see the man behind you, and bless the lights in New York, you're able to make out a red mask with little horns on it and a red bodysuit.

"Oh," You breathe out, a sense of awe and respect washing over the numb void from before. "The angel of Hell's Kitchen."

He shifts his head to the side. "I thought the media called me the Devil."

You snort again before patting the spot beside you. "Please, a devil inspires chaos and sin, if my limited knowledge of the Bible is correct. You smite with justice and limit the crime of the city. You're an archangel more than any devil."

He sits down next to you, legs crossed as you look back out at the city. "You seem fine with what I do."

You nod. "I've heard you save children from angry fathers and men with roaming hands. You're more than good in my book."You try to not let the memories overwhelm you, focusing on the here and now. "Would've been nice to have someone like you around when I was young." You had been so small, so full of life when you were young. The world has hardened you and torn out your heart.

"I'm sorry there wasn't." He truly means it. You feel anger and sorrow in his words, and tears start rolling down your face before you can stop them. You've always cried easily, a trait you've always hated.

"I managed this long." You say weakly, as if you hadn't been thinking about killing yourself before he showed up.

"It must've been hard." He comments.

"Thought you were a vigilante, not a therapist." You try to say, the words not coming out right from the tears. You wipe at them, sniffling. "But yeah, I mean, look where I am. Left my home to try to find some purpose on the other side of the country, barely affording my place, and still struggling with the idea of killing myself to stop feeling so numb and tired. I'm a mess of a person."

"You're not that bad. Your circumstances have been unfortunate though."

"I don't even believe in angels." You murmurs through hiccups. Damn the tears. They always start easily and take forever to end. The man reaches over and brushes some of the water off your cheek.

"Good thing I'm just a man then."

You laugh, more ugly wet sounds escaping you. God, you must look a wreck. "Definitely one of the better ones I've met." You want a hug right now. Just some sort of physical contact to feel not so small anymore. You quash the desire. As good as the vigilante is, you don't feel comfortable making that request of him.

"Thank you. For trusting me." 'After what you've been through' goes unsaid but you understand what he means.

"Thank you for caring." He smiles at that, sad and small. This is a man that understands sadness, you think. This is not someone who will harm you. You feel exhaustion overtake you and decide to throw caution to the wind. "Can I ask you to do something?" His outfit looks smooth and comforting, something you can run your fingers along to calm yourself down more.

He hesitates. "What is it?" He asks carefully.

"It's kinda weird. Sorry. But can I get a hug? If that's too weird, I'd totally settle for a pat on the head." You pause. "That's probably even weirder, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine." He turns to you and pulls you to him, his arms wrapping around you. The outfit is some sort of leather. It smells nice as you drop your head to his shoulder. It's cool and the right mixture of hard and soft around you, smooth and comforting in the way that soft or silk blankets are. You run your hand up his arm, excusing the motion as a way to hold him to you.

"Thank you. I can't remember the last time I was hugged." It's a lie. You were hugged recently after a night of fucking with some friend of a coworker, but you had just felt bad during it. This, this feels good.

"Maybe I should check on you every once in a while and just give you a hug."

You can't tell if he's joking or not. Either way, you smile. "There's more important things in this city than hugging me." You decline, without saying how much you'd like it if he did show up again.

"Still, not often that I get hugged either."

"Vigilante-ing a lonely business?" His lips quirk at the question. It's not a happy look. "Look, you already changed my night, and probably the next few weeks for me. I'll be fine on my own for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Could be two days, could be months." You say honestly. You've never quite understood your brain chemistry, how you could get trapped in a terrible low for weeks at a time and other times snap back after a few hours of slipping. It didn't help that your family had always ingrained you with the idea that having to pop pills meant you were weak.

"That's... alarming." He says slowly, as if he isn't sure how to actually finish the sentence. "Promise me something." It's not a question.

"What is it?"

"Meet me here this time in a week."

Well that's a simple request. It's still a little guilting, but he seems nice enough that you're able to overlook it.

And so, instead of making a deal with a devil, you make a promise to an angel.


	2. Chapter 2

You almost break your promise. It’s not because you forgot. Instead you had lain down at midnight, exhausted from your week when you briefly considered just skipping it. After all, there’s no guarantee that he’s going to actually show up. Plus, you’re not sure if you want to meet him again. There have been other men – those who didn’t understand you and those who did all too well – they’d all tried to fix you. And look where it had gotten you: so lonely that you had no idea how to deal with someone just trying to be nice to you.  
You flop around in bed for hours debating on whether you should go up to the roof. At 2:47, you sigh and get up, having given up on the idea of getting any sleep. You throw your robe on over your pajamas and toss your key and mace into one of the pockets. You hesitate at the door, before going back to grab your cigarettes and lighter. Just in case he doesn’t show, you tell yourself as you make your way up the few flights to the roof access.  
He’s already there when you open the door, and yup, that’s kind of terrifying. Experience has taught you to fear men lingering around dark areas, even if they are acquaintances. He turns to face you and smiles sheepishly.  
“Sorry I’m early. I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten and I wasn’t really sure what time it was.” He shifts awkwardly. Good, you’re not the only nervous one here.  
"I guess it would be hard to keep a watch or phone on you while you're out vigilante-ing." You banter back. "Just startled me to see you here. The outfit is still fear-inspiring, in case no one's told you that tonight." Good cover, you tell yourself in your mind.  
He hesitates. "I could leave if it's going to be a problem. I don't want to make you nervous." And this is why you call him an angel. He manages to somehow be adorable and accommodating even in creepy leather vigilante gear.  
"It's fine. Really," You add as he frowns. "I know you can't take the mask off around me, and I don't want you to leave so I'll deal with it. Seriously, don't worry. Just give me time to adjust." He nods and you make your way over to him. "So you don't look beat up. That's good."   
He shrugs. "There wasn't too much to do tonight. With Fisk gone, most seem in a daze and no one's tried to take control yet." He sits down on the rooftop. You wonder if it's uncomfortable wearing that thing and trying to look threatening all the time. "But enough about that. How are you?"  
You grin at him as you sit down. "Well I'm alive, so that's a thing." You snort. "The last week's been okay. Nothing too interesting has happened, but I haven't felt suicidal, so that's good."  
He hums. "I'm glad you're here." You almost let the words 'you too' out. They're right there on the tip of your tongue as you look at him. It's strange how the even texture over his eyes calms you. He's not focused on you or anything else. You're not a priority and the thought of that makes you relax. "What else did you do this week?" He asks as all this races through your mind.  
You shrug. "Not much. I'm kind of a snooze fest."  
"Then talk about something else." He pauses. "I like listening to you. You have a nice voice."  
You scoff and hope it is dark enough that he can't notice the slight blush on your cheeks. "First time I've heard that." You admit as you slide your right foot along the roof. He's quiet beside you, his back straight and his perfect posture both annoys and impresses you. "I used to take dance classes." You say suddenly, remembering firm hands that helped you stand up straight and uncurled your shoulders. "Ballet mostly. Wasn't great at it, but it was nice." You trail off. "I still practice every once in a while. Still can't do the splits though."  
He smiles at that. "Sounds like fun." You appreciate that he doesn't laugh at your topic, or question where it came from.  
"It was one of the best parts of my childhood." You bend your legs, resting your chin on your knees, closing your eyes as you remember. "It was terrifying though. I was always so nervous and excited when we'd perform shows. Having all that attention on you is strange. Makes you feel vulnerable. Makes you feel powerful. So much fear of failing. So much eagerness to impress." You smile. "I messed up once during a recital and I think I cried for days afterwards." You laugh, the sound bittersweet. "Everyone still told me that I was great, but I got so obsessed with that failure. I didn't dance for at least a week because I thought the magic was gone." You sigh softly and open your eyes.  
"And when you started dancing again?"  
You turn your head to face him. He's still staring out over the city, his hands in his lap. "I realized I had been ridiculous. I still felt like I was flying with every leap. I figured out it wasn't magic but work and practice." He hums appreciatively.  
"I’d like to see you practice." He sounds wistful, sad, almost, as if he thinks it'll never happen.  
You shrug. "The roof's not ideal, and I haven't done much practice for a decade, but yeah. I might be able to come up with something." He smiles and it's such a nice smile. "You have to promise me something though."  
"And what's that?" His tone is light, but you don't doubt that he's noticed the parallel to last week's conversation.  
"That you won't laugh if I mess up."  
"I won't even notice, I promise." He grins. "Promise me something, too?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Meet me here again next week."  
You smile and let out a small laugh. Of course. Of course he’d ask that. “Sure.” You say, keeping your tone light.  
He extends an arm towards you before he pauses. "Okay for me to hug you?" You nod and scoot closer. "Thanks." He says softly as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pressing you to his side.  
You only feel comfort as you lean against him. "You too." You say as you reach an arm around his back. You really like his costume. It's always so smooth, the texture just perfect in a way you can't describe. You watch over the city with him for minutes, the two of you still huddled close together in mutual comfort.  
Eventually you start to yawn, your eyes slipping shut lazily.  
"Sorry," He mutters and moves away from you. "Forgot about the time. You should go in and get some sleep."  
You mumble, and even you're not sure what you're trying to say. Yeah, sleep sounds like a great idea. You slowly stand up, stretching as you yawn again. "Next week." You say as you stretch your legs out.  
"Next week." He repeats as he stands up next to you, so much more gracefully than you.  
"You like sugar cookies?" You ask and he tilts his head at you quizzically. "I'm not the best at baking, but I figured it be a nice snack after you're done looking for trouble."  
"I... Yeah, I like them. Thank you." He seems stunned that you'd do something for him.  
You smile and give him a thumbs up. "Cool. I'll have some cookies for you next week then." You pause. "Be safe."  
He nods. "Next week."  
As you make your way back down to your apartment, you chuckle. You really didn't think that a vigilante would be your first friend here.  
\---  
You have to take an umbrella up with you next week. It's not raining hard, but you don't want the cookies getting wet. You had a few in your apartment before you decided to head up. The mace is still in your pocket, but you didn't bother with the cigarettes or lighter this time. He's a man of his word, and you have no doubt that he'll show up.   
You beat him there this time. Unfortunately, the roof is wet and cold, so you have to stand while you wait. The wait is still nice; the lights of the city are pretty, even though it's hard to make them out through the rain.  
"Hope I didn't keep you waiting long." You hear as he climbs up from the fire escape.  
"Nah. It's fine." You say as you walk over to him. "Here." You say as you hold out the cookie-filled Tupperware to him. "Sugar cookies, as promised."  
He smiles and leans closer to you as he takes the Tupperware and opens it. He makes a noise, presumably at the smell of the cookies and smiles. "Thank you." He gingerly lifts one out and bites it. His smile grows and you laugh.  
"It's seriously hard to imagine people being scared of you when you're being so delicate with a cookie." You explain as you giggle more. He frowns.  
"I am the scourge of crime." He deadpans before taking another bite of the cookie. You break out into another fit of laughs and he smiles. "These are great. Thank you."  
"Not a problem. Tough night?" You ask. There's definitely a bruise forming on his cheek and you can't help but worry that there's more damage hidden by the suit.  
"Not really. Few guys got in a few lucky hits, is all." He says before taking another cookie. "How are you doing?"  
You shift back and forth, your smile dropping. "You know." You shrug weakly. You're trying very hard to swallow the lump in your throat. "Things got difficult for a few days. But I'm." You take in a shuddering breath. "I'm good. I'm here, and I'm goo... I'm okay." You nod.  
His smile drops, and shit. This feels too tense. He moves a bit closer, slowly. His free hand reaches out to gently grasp the hand you're holding the umbrella with.  
"You made it through another week." He gently squeezes your hand. You have to close your eyes. "I am proud of you."  
You whimper and swallow again. It'd been tough. Work had been hell, and you had thought you were going to break down in front of your boss. And then, when you'd gotten home, you'd just felt tired, broken, and empty. The tears had started without you realizing as you sat at your table, your arms hanging limply at your sides.  
And now, here's this man, that works so hard to protect others, that does so much, and he's saying that happy that you're here. He's happy to have met you again and again. You sob and his frown deepens. He starts to pull his hand off of yours and you shake your head.  
You feel like you've been alone for so long until this moment.  
You feel like your chest is opening up.  
You feel important.  
"Thank you." You whisper between sobs. You scrub at your eyes with your free hand. "I just." You gasp. "It hasn't felt like anyone's cared."  
His frown lessens, but not by much. "I'm here. I care." That makes you cry even more. You feel silly, crying over things that are supposed to make you feel happy, but you've heard this before. Unfortunately, most of those people are gone; either because they chose to leave, or because you pushed them away. You don't want that to happen again. Not this time around. You're scared.  
It's even worse since he puts himself in danger. You're so afraid to lose him.  
"You too." You whisper as you move closer. He bends a little to better fit under the umbrella as he lets you lean against his chest. "I care about you too."  
You feel and hear the sudden intake of breath. "Thank you." He whispers back.  
Things are okay.  
When you eventually stop crying, you sigh against the smooth leather of his chest. "Sorry for-"  
"Don't apologize." He cuts you off quickly. "You didn't do anything wrong."  
"Okay." You nod. A part of you wants to argue, but you're drained of most emotion. You take a small step back, and he lets go of your hand to put the lid back on the Tupperware. He smiles at you before he freezes. "Something wrong?" You ask, slightly confused.  
"I'm sorry, but I have to go." He really does sound sorry.  
"Vigilante thing?" He nods. "Alright. Go do your thing." You smile.  
"Next week." He says before he pulls you close again for a hug. You nod against him before he turns, runs, and leaps to the roof of the building next door.  
You laugh as you realize he's still holding your cookies as he leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between updates. @n@ Lost my mojo for a while.

Irritation. That’s the best word for what you’re feeling. It’s not pain, it’s not emptiness, but irritation. You’re on edge, every little thing digging into your skin, your mind as you just trying to make it through your day.  
It feels like the world is out to drag you down today. You were late to work because your alarm hadn’t gone off, Alex – a coworker that you didn’t particularly like – kept talking and talking about nothing throughout your shift, the customers were obnoxious, indecisive, rude, or disgusting, and you got rained on when you left for home, only to discover that in your rush to get to work, you’d forgotten your umbrella.  
You’re soaking wet and starving when you finally made it home, but you are unable to muster up the energy to actually pick out something to eat. Instead you flop to the floor in front of the kitchen and lay there. All you want to do was scream at the ceiling. You don’t care that your clothes are wet. You don’t care how loud your stomach was. You don’t care anymore.  
A small groan escapes your lips as you stared up, shivering in the puddle you’d made.  
Vaguely you think about your meeting with Daredevil later tonight, but you still can’t feel anything more than irritation.  
Staying up to 3 a.m. is tiring, and you know he’s going to tire of you eventually. All people leave, it’s only a matter of time. He’s hoping to get something from you, you think, but he won’t get it. Then, he’ll either disappear, get angry, or talk to you about how he misjudged you.  
It’s bound to happen. It’s what always happens.  
Fuck it, you think angrily and dejectedly. You shove yourself off the floor, stomping around the apartment as you become a cathartic tornado of cleaning. Fuck it, fuck him, and fuck everything.  
You spend the hours deeply cleaning your apartment, getting rid of things that suddenly some pointless and scrubbing every inch of the kitchen until it fucking sparkles.  
You feel good as you survey your work. The on edge feeling is still there, and you know it’s not going to go away anytime soon. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, a reminder set for 2:45 a.m. that you need to get up to the roof. You snort at it and put it on the counter.  
You’re going to confront him, you decide. You’re going to figure out what the hell he wants and tell him to leave because you can’t ever be what he wants you to be. It’s going to hurt. He won’t admit to anything at first, you think, but eventually he’ll break down and tell you what he wants from you. And you’ll drive him off because you’re not enough, just like you’ve driven off everyone else.  
It’s 3:02 when you finally start moving again. You grab a coat, your keys, and your phone before you storm up the stairs to the roof access.  
He’s already there when you come out. In his hands is the Tupperware container he took last week, and a small flare of irritation goes through you. You’re not even sure why.  
Maybe it's the thought that there's someone that's always a good person, that never forgets to give things back to people, that can always help others compared to you: a cowardly, forgetful, selfish person that can't even help yourself. You grind your teeth together and you see him frown.  
"Everything okay?" He asks, his head tilted. God, it looks dumb. His costume is dumb. Everything about this is irritating and dumb.  
"Yep." You manage to not scream at him. Instead the single word is in a clipped tone and you grab the Tupperware out of his hands. "Thanks." It's really clear that you don't actually mean that.  
He looks startled and unsure what to say and do. You feel like laughing, like crying, like screaming all at once. People don't know how to deal with you. You're all over the place and it's exhausting, you've been told. Just one more thing to feel bitter and irritated about.  
"So, um, the cookies were wonderful. Thank you." He's definitely still confused, his tone a little more cautious than usual. It feels like a tipping point.  
"What is it that you get out of this?" You ask suddenly. You still feel on edge, as if adrenaline is rushing through you and you have nowhere else to point all the excess energy. "Like, why the hell do you care so much about me? You don't even know me! I don't even know you! What do you expect from this?"  
He's silent for a moment and you can't tell if it's still misguided anger ruling you, or fear that he will decide you're not worth his time. You're not going to back down, though. Hell no. You made this mess, you're going to see it through.  
"I just wanted to help." He says softly. "I didn't want anyone else to feel so alone."  
You laugh a bitter, sharp, wet sound. "Sounds pretty selfish and stupid to me." Your grip tightens on the Tupperware that you're both still holding. "Did you ever stop and think that maybe I want to be alone? That maybe I didn't want any help? I've lived this long without you in my life, and I don't need you!"  
"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" He's not fumbling around for a direction on how to treat you anymore. You grit your teeth more as you think that this is where this friendship ends.  
"Fuck you. I moved away from everyone I knew to get alone. I don't need or want you." Lie, but he doesn't know that.  
"You're not particularly good at lying. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on."  
"Nothing is going on. I'm tired of not knowing what it is that you're looking for from me." The irritation is suddenly gone completely. You just feel tired and lonely and guilty. You continue, the words just flowing out of you. "I'm tired of wondering how much more you'll put up with me before you leave. I feel on edge because I don't know what makes you tick, what you won't deal with. I'm tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop and for you to just not show up one night because you realize you have better things to do at this time than hang out with a crazy person." You want to cling to him and never let go. At the same time, you want to push him away so you aren't investing in future sadness and pain. You stare at the Tupperware, looking at how your hands almost touch his and yet the distance seems so extreme. You decide to finally act maturely for the first time tonight. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things to you. That was horrible of me." The guilt sinks in you, weighing you down. This argument will replay in your mind for weeks, and you know that the guilt will grow each time.  
His gloved hands slide over yours. "Apology accepted." You feel even worse with how quickly he says that. "And you're right. I am getting something out of this. I'm getting someone that I can listen to that's separate from everything else I do. And I was hoping to become friends. That's all."  
You look at his hands on yours. "I'm not good with friends. Not really good with people in general." He deserves better than you.  
"You're okay, in my opinion," He says with a small shrug. "I mean, we've only met a few times, but they've been nice."  
You snort. "Even this time?"  
"It's improving. Both of us being honest helps."  
You sigh and finally pull your hands out from under his gloves. He doesn't even stop you. "Sorry again. You deserve friends who won't snap at you for any reason."  
He makes an odd sound. "Oh trust me, I have it coming for some reason or another. I've messed up with friends too." You finally look up at that. Without his eyes, you can't fully interpret his expression, but you're sure it's similar to yours.  
"Tell me about your week." You say suddenly.  
"But -"  
"My week wasn't bad, until today where everything went wrong. Now, tell me about your week. Leave out any details you want to, just talk to me." You pause. "It isn't fair for you to only listen."  
He hesitates. "I work with my best friends. We've all been close to fighting because they keep covering for me, but I haven't explained anything to them. They don't know about this," He says as he gestures to himself, "and I can't really tell them. They wouldn't understand. We mostly work well together, though. We changed some lives this week for the better, and it's always nice to be able to say that." He's smiling at the end.  
"That's good," You say. "Not the ‘lying to your friends’ part, although it's understandable. But that's really good that you're helping people without a mask too. You're a good person."  
“You know you are too, right?” You begin to protest but he shakes his head and keeps talking. “It’s normal to get angry and lash out. People accidentally hurt others all the time. And you apologized, which is something that not everyone does. You’re a good, normal person.”  
“Dunno if a guy in a mask and horns really knows the definition of normal.” You crack a smile though, to let him know that you’re just joking. The whole not good with compliments thing is rearing its head again, especially since you still feel bad about yelling at him.  
“Low blow,” He laughs.  
Things feel… better. This feels good. Being around him makes you feel good.  
“Can I,” You swallow thickly, “Can I hug you again?” It feels weird every time you ask, but you’d rather have his permission. He simply nods and opens his arms, letting you step close before he wraps his arms around your shoulders. You breathe in the smell of leather and the city around you – the dust, the smoke, the grime, the sweat, the blood. It shouldn’t be pleasant, but somehow it’s reassuring that what’s happening is real. That the man before you is real. “Thank you, and I’m sorry again.”  
“You’re forgiven.” He says softly. The moment feels tender, sacred even.  
The city makes its early morning sounds around the two of you as you stand there, holding each other and breathing in alternation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes 0% Daredevil and 100% unhealthy coping mechanisms.
> 
> I kept it short because I felt that it might be triggering enough at this length and going into more detail would only make it worse for you lovely people and myself.
> 
> This chapter features suicide ideation, disassociation, drug abuse, and mentions of cutting. If any of those trigger you, I highly recommend skipping this chapter. The only reason I'm including it is because this is my actual headspace from a few days ago and I need to get it out. 
> 
> Once again, if any of the above mentioned subjects trigger you, please do not read this. You deserve better than the aftermath of reading triggering material. Do not hurt yourself.
> 
> Also, to prevent people from getting worried about me; I'm okay. Yes, I engaged in self harming behavior but I am okay at the moment and have no intentions of following through or continuing. I've more or less figured out why this week in particular has been hard for me, and I'm taking steps to not having a repeat session.

It was only a matter of time.

You stare at the bottle of pills in your right hand. It's always been odd to you that people don't realize how deadly an over the counter bottle of pills can be. You don't personally know the statistics on these types of overdoses, but you presume with the easy access, it must be somewhat high.

You've been riding a high again, and it was only a matter of time before you crashed down, down, down. It occurred to you, some days, but you had reassured yourself that you'd taken enough precautions to lessen the effects this time.  
You've forgotten how many times you've thought that same thing over the years.

It doesn't matter.

You're so tired. You don't even want to die. Things have been okay lately, even with your mood crashing. The problem is inside of you, and you recognize it. The world outside is irritating, yes, but you know your thoughts are irrational in response. You know the problem is you.

Or rather, the problem is how you've been feeling and reacting. You've just been so tired lately.

You've been going to bed earlier and sleeping in later, but you're still so tired. If it weren't for this soul-deep exhaustion, you'd be fine.

It's not a suicide attempt, you tell yourself. Just some sleep aid.

You look at the milligrams and the recommended dosage, then pop open the package and triple it.

To be safe, you take the pills with some water and some food.

It's not self harm, you think. 

It doesn't count if you're not trying to die.

You're fine. You've ignored the persistent itch in your wrist that's made you cut before. You've eaten three meals a day (most days). You're fine. You just need more sleep.

An hour later, the thoughts creep in. You curl up tighter in your bed and try not to cry as you realize how you feel like a ghost haunting your apartment. You reflect and find your behavior mechanical and fake. You're not real, perhaps. The world is doing fine with you only existing in this room, and not out in the world at large. You don't exist. Not really.

Your body hasn't gotten the message though. 

Soon. You think as you drift off to sleep. Soon.

Your alarm goes off hours later. You wake up enough to see how dark it is, and annoyed, you turn it off before rolling back over to continue your dreamless slumber.

In the morning, you feel worse than before. The thoughts are back, and even worse than last night. You're exhausted, shaky, and disgusted. Your stomach is weak, but you're starving. As you eat four pieces of toast, you remember what day of the week it is.

You were supposed to meet Daredevil last night. You feel even sicker at the realization.

You're a horrible person. You're not trying to get better. You're just running in circles with your mental health. You haven't made any actual changes in your life aside from moving, and that hadn't done a damn thing. 

You're still the same depressed, suicidal mess that you've always been.

It's all you'll be until you actually go through with it.

Overwhelmed, you curl up in your chair and cry.


End file.
